Thursday, December 13, 2012

I thought I'd give you a sneak peek of my next book, TROUBLE IN TANDEMONIUM, as I inch my way towards the finish line with my seventh Calamity Jayne Mystery. Originally meant to be a novella, the story morphed into a book. I hope to have it out shortly after the first of the year. So, get ready for trouble in tandem when Tressa Jayne Turner sets off on a
bicycle built for two across Iowa
partnered with Drew Van Vleet, a reporter from Grandville Gazette’s biggest
competitor–the New Holland News–and, as it happens, Tressa’s number one
nemesis. They’ve got a history. He’s got an ax to grind. And Tressa’s still
smarting from being the headline grabber in Van Vleet’s humiliating Halloween
spread.
Calamity Jayne Turner isn’t taking a back seat to anyone and this little
caravan is sure to have more potholes than the county roads after a hard
winter. Hang on, folks. It’s likely to be bumpy ride…

Excerpt from TROUBLE IN TANDEMONIUM by Kathleen Bacus:

“You
did bring your bike helmet,” Van Vleet asked.

“Of
course.” Actually, I’d lifted Taylor’s
helmet from the shelf in the folks’ garage. I figured. Why spend money I didn’t
have for something she wouldn’t miss?

I
wrinkled my nose and picked the black helmet up and set it on my head. Leave it
to Taylor to
pick a boring color. I could see it now: What’s black and white and red all
over? Tressa Turner on a tandem. I fumbled with the straps, having difficulty
getting the blasted thing fastened.

“Uh,
Einstein. You have your helmet on backwards,” Van Vleet said.

I
rotated the helmet, cinched the straps, and leveled an annoyed look at my
pedaling partner.

“So,
what makes you such an expert? You don’t seem like the bike type to me.”

Van
Vleet fiddled with the bicycle. “I ride,” he said.

Was
I imagining it--or had he lost a bit of his swagger?

He
fastened his own bike helmet on his head—a shiny silver number—took hold of the
bike’s handlebars and swung a leg over the bike, settling his bike shorts clad
fanny on the front seat of the bike.

“My
guardian angel says. That’s who. You haven’t ridden a bike since you were in
grade school. No way am I going to trust the driver’s seat to someone who has
the nickname you do—and with a history to justify it.”

“Oh.
So you get the view of the wide, open road and I get what? The view of your
wide, open posterior all the way across the state? No way.”

“Oh,
for heaven’s sake. Listen up, Blondie. As soon as I’m convinced that I won’t
end up as someone’s hood ornament, we’ll talk about taking turns. Until then,
get used to the back seat, backside view. Now would you get on the damned
bike!”

I
was about to protest more, but realized he was probably right. I wasn’t ready
to take the helm yet. I’d need some time in the saddle. But once I was up to
speed? Well, this little cowgirl wasn’t about to take a back seat to anyone.

Especially
a twinkie like Van Vleet.

I
grabbed the handlebars behind Van Vleet’s seat and started to swing a leg over
the bicycle’s bar when the bike wobbled precariously to one side.

“Whoa!
Hold your horses, Calamity! A little finesse, please! This is a bike, not a
steed. You don’t gallop up and throw yourself on a tandem like some half-assed
ramrod, or we’ll tip over!” Van Vleet scolded. He repositioned the bike and
planted a foot on either side of the bicycle to balance it. “Position yourself
thus,” he instructed.

“Thus?”
I made a face. “Thus?”

“Just
do it!” Van Vleet barked.

“Okay!
Okay! I’ll position myself thus.” I
shook my head. “Jeesch. Take a chill pill, would you?”I assumed the position. “There.
You happy?” I said to the rigid back in front of me.

Van
Vleet turned in his seat.

“Do
I look happy?”

I
shrugged. “How would I know? You always seem to have a smarmy smirk on your face.”

“Smarmy
smirk, is it? Wow. The dumb blonde does alliteration.”

I
frowned, trying to decide if that was a compliment, a diss, or maybe both.

“I
can do stuff,” I said.

“We’ll
see,” Van Vleet said. “Did you spend any time at all researching the technique
of riding tandem?” he asked. “You know. In between covering the obits and
dispensing candy sprinkles on soft serve?”

“I
didn’t think it was compulsory to Google riding a bicycle,” I responded.

Van
Vleet shook his head. “I thought as much. Okay. Lesson one. Definition of
terms. Term One: Captain. The captain is the front seat rider and the bike
boss. The rider in control, if you will. The captain controls breaking,
steering, and shifting gears.” He jabs a thumb into his chest. “That’s me. I am
the captain.”

I
blinked. Was this guy for real?

I
struck a salute pose.

“Aye,
aye, Captain! Permission to speak, sir!”

Van
Vleet did one of those eye roll numbers. “Do I have a choice?”

“Sir!
No, sir!”

“Oh,
for god’s sake. Get to the point.”

“Point
One: Why do you get to be the bike boss?”

“Uh,
firstly because I actually know what I’m doing and secondly because I don’t
want to die. Now, may I please proceed?”

I
sighed.“If you must.”

“Term
Number Two: Stroker.”
“Stroker?” I frowned, already preparing to be insulted.

Van
Vleet nodded. “Stroker. Also known as the motor. You,Miss Motormouth, are the stroker.”

“I’m
the motor. Me?”

“Technically,
you’re the stroker.”

“And
you are…an ass,” I said.

“Would
you get serious?”

I
stared at him. “I’ve just been assigned stroker
duties and you want me to get
serious. Dude. That’s whacked.”

His
glanced shifted to the area of my body that falls between the pelvis and the
knees. “With those thighs? You don’t really want me to answer that question, do
you?”

What
can I say? I have cowgirl thighs.

“Listen.
These thighs were sculpted from years of horse hugging, roping, riding, and
rodeoing, buddy. That doesn’t mean they are pedal-power approved,” I said.

“You
might be surprised,” Van Vleet suggested. “No matter. Those thunder thighs will
have to do and you’ll have to get used to second seat spinning. Now for the correct
mounting procedure.”

“Hey.
You aren’t getting fresh, are you?” I snorted.

“In
your dreams, TT.”

“TT?
Oh. Tressa Turner.”

“No.
Thunder thighs.”

I
let the dig slide. Never fear. I’d have a week to come up with appropriate
names for my pedaling partner. And my employer…

“Now,”
Van Vleet went on. “I’ve got the brake engaged so the bike won’t roll. The
stroker positions the pedal in the lowest position to use as a step. Go ahead
and do it.”

I
complied.

“Now
mount the bicycle. Try to center your balance as much as possible. Okay. Now,
clip your feet and tie off the straps.”

I
fumbled a bit, but managed to do as he instructed.

“Next
you’re going to rotate the pedals to a good starting position for me,” Van
Vleet said. “Okay. A little more. There. That should do. Right. We should be
ready to go. Remember. We’ve got to get the bike going quickly so we don’t tip
over. And it’s important that we match our cadence. You do know what that
means, right?”

“Oh,
shucks, Cap’n. All we strokers know what cadence is,” I guffawed.

“Since you’re the weakest link, you determine
how fast or slow the cadence is,” Van Vleet went on. “So I’ll take my cue from
you.”

“How
do you know I’m the weakest link?” I objected. “I could turn out to be a tandem
rock star.”

“Prove
it, Witchiepoo,” Van Vleet said.

I
pointed my fingers at my eyes and turned them around and back at him in an “I’m
watching you” move.

“Let’s
do it,” I said, with a more confidence than I felt.

“Okay.
I’m going to push off. Ready. And go!”

The
tandem shot forward.

“Pedal!
Set the cadence!” Van Vleet yelled.

I
bent over the handlebars, trying to remember to maintain a centered balance,
stepping into the raised pedal with one foot, then the other.

“Faster!
Faster!” Van Vleet yelled, and I kicked it up a notch.

“Too
slow! Too slow!” Van Vleet’s hollered warning came as my right foot somehow managed
to come loose from the tie thatsecured
to the pedal. I tried to recover my foothold, and leaned slightly to my left.

“Pedal!
Pedal!” Van Vleet yelled.

“I’m trying!” I yelled back. “I’m trying!”

Every time I thought I’d gained a foothold,
the speed of the pedals changed and my foot flailed in mid-air.

“Try harder! I can’t do it alone! You’re
like dead weight back there!”

I felt my balanced center begin to wobble.
My sole remaining anchor flew off the pedal and both legs shot out in opposite
directions.

Look Ma! No feet!

The bicycle began to tip.

“We’re going down, we’re going down, we’re
going down!” I screamed and squeezed my eyes shut to block out the sight of the
roadside ditch as it came closer and closer.

A prayer kept me company during that split-second
descent: Dear Lord, protect the teeth.

The Crime

The authors of this blog are hereby charged with writing Killer Fiction novels responsible for spontaneous outbursts of laughter in public places, uncontrollable swooning over larger-than-life heroes, and the deaths of countless fictional villains.

The Evidence

Our Accomplices

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